Captive
by Kandakicksass
Summary: If Jerry had won that final battle... what would become of Peter, so haunted by his parent's murderer... and so captivated? Vampires aren't anti-slavery, after all, and sometimes it takes your worst nightmare to open your eyes to what you really need. J/P


**Very close to a PWP for its own sake, but in the end there was plot. Beat that, mindless smut!**

He tried not to cry, not wanting to let Jerry push him around anymore, but helpless to stop it. He was so tired, so completely ruined, that he wasn't sure just how he was going to continue. Honestly, he knew that leaving—even if he could—wouldn't work. It never worked, and likely never would. Jerry kept him under lock, key, and very expensive security systems. He had stolen everything "Peter Vincent" had created, the money, the house, every artifact that he'd gathered with the sole purpose of making sure he was never in _this _position. But he was.

Every day, he would sit in complete sunlight, the skylight making sure that any vampires who had enough balls to avoid sunlight and break in during the day to steal Jerry's prize were mocked by the ring of light that engulfed the skinny body. He was weary, so weary—his body thirty-five years old but feeling a hundred, skinny and malnourished, yet somehow he'd managed to retain that slender frame that had made him popular with the boys in high school.

When night came, though—when night came he was well and truly fucked, his hair messy and sticking up in every direction, his face kept shaven by his captor. He'd learned early on that Jerry wasn't a fan of facial hair, and shortly after that if Jerry wasn't a fan of something, it was well to do away with it. He would move from his circle of light and into the corner, by then the vampires nothing but ash, killed by the man smiling at him so predatorily that he wanted to hide from him. He wasn't accustomed to hiding from anything—he was _Peter fucking Vincent_, for fuck's sake—but who cared? Jerry didn't care, and made sure he didn't, either.

"Hello, pet," the man trilled charmingly. "You've been a good boy today? Eaten all your vegetables?" Black eyes threw the empty trey by the door a smug look. It was a learning experience for Jerry, as well—taking away his food for bad behavior did nothing but starve his "pet", and ruin his pretty looks. Now, he was punished for refusing to eat, and did so heartily when forced.

Not looking up from his feet, grimy, and dirty, for it'd been a week since his last bath and he was due for another (though he didn't particularly enjoy the experience, for Jerry didn't trust him on his own and washed him instead of giving him privacy to even cry), he nodded and he heard a small huff of satisfaction. Jerry was a mass of contradictions, really—when he was really feisty, he looked pissed, but when he was honestly and truly angry, he looked unnaturally calm.

"I believe I've taught you to speak, pet."

"Yes," he mumbled, daring a glance upward. Jerry was raising an eyebrow at him and his heart fluttered in a way he was abnormally accustomed to—in fear. "Yes, master," he forced out quickly, his eyes dropping to his filthy toes again. He trailed one on the floor of his prison, disgusted and fascinated by the line his toe left in the dirt.

Jerry was pleased again and he felt a hand on his shoulder, instinctually shifting away with panic filtering through him. Jerry normally didn't touch him when he was so filthy, so he was normally safe from _that _after the first several days. Dread struck him hard as he felt a hand undoing the chain on his collar and another heaving him to his feet.

"You," Jerry murmured cheerfully. "Are disgusting. How's a bath, pet?" Peter cringed at the sound of his own voice being tossed back at him, the mocking English lilt laced with teasing promise. "You're so dirty, Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter… do you like being filthy? I won't bathe you if you don't want to be clean." Peter didn't answer and Jerry sighed, tracing a talon down the line of his neck. "I'll tell you what—I'll even have the maids clean this room for you so you can try to stay clean. Maybe I'll even provide you with a futon. Yes?"

He knew that this was a generous offer from the man and nodded eagerly though he felt sick at what he knew was coming. "Yes, master," he said, his voice cracking. "Yes, please." Jerry was very pleased by his answer and even though he knew it was very, _very _wrong, he felt a sort of satisfaction that he could know how to please this sick _bastard_ that held him now, closely, a hand stroking his oily, unpleasant hair.

"I've certainly trained you well," he said with that smug superiority so clear in his voice. "Look at you, so afraid and compliant. I could even do this, do whatever—" A hand trailed down his shoulder and into his once-white t-shirt, flicking over a nipple that had been taught to respond, hardening slightly against his will. "And you just take it, just stand here with your eyes downcast as I manipulate you in any way I like. Quite refreshing; the others just fight. I don't even want to take them anymore… do you feel special, pet, knowing you're the only one who can capture my interest like this?"

"You offered me a bath, master?" he tried desperately, stalling for time. He had given up fighting, given up trying to provoke the monster to just kill him. All he had now was surviving in the least painful way possible.

Jerry's eyes flashed and he squeezed his shut, bracing himself for the pain, honestly expecting it. However, it never came and the stroking of his completely disgusting hair resumed. "I did," he said shortly. "And I never go back on my word." It was bitter-sweet, both a promise and a threat.

They walked out of the room, left unlocked when Jerry had entered because really? Who in their right minds would attempt to get past him? Mercifully, his walk of shame—witnessed weekly by every maid who had once been so meek and submissive to him, so fearful of his drunken anger—was short, and every woman standing was looking away. These girls had hated him for the most part, and he couldn't imagine the satisfaction they must have felt—he himself being treated the way he'd treated them, on a smaller scale. Douchebag, yes. Total asshole? No. He'd never been that, and he'd never been abusive or obsessive. That just wasn't… _him_.

Immediately, the door was shut behind him, not softly, but certainly not a slam.

"Strip, you little bitch," Jerry said crudely, dropping his sweet façade. "Little cock tease. You know, you were born for me. Bet you never thought that you'd be my little slut one day, did you? Even as you feared me, grew to hate me, you're still here, your body reacting to me stronger than any other." The words had an effect on him, all right—he wanted to puke as he pulled his shirt off, his muscles sore and protesting. The most horrible part was that he knew, right to his very core, than Jerry was right. He was so very slutty and he also knew it was partially because of vampire endorphins or something of that sort, but it still made him feel dirty and a traitor to himself.

"And the pants," Jerry drawled, sounding bored. He did as he was bid, undoing the button and sliding them over his nearly feminine hips, his chest tightening as he was exposed. The minute his jeans touched the floor a maid was called, gestured by Jerry to take his clothes for washing. Before she left, she was given a whispered command—likely to get his room cleaned and set in order. When she was gone and the room locked behind her, Jerry's black eyes turned back on him. "In the water, pet."

He did as he was told yet again, feeling like a puppet being played with. He slid inside the tub—his lovely hot tub—and couldn't help but hiss in pleasure as the warm water, almost hot, hit his abused skin. "Is that good, Peter?" Jerry purred and he couldn't help but nod truthfully. Jerry hardly ever used his name and he couldn't say he didn't like the sound of it said so sinfully. He almost missed the sound of it, period—he'd been famous before. People loved him, and now…

Now he was the bitch of the very thing he'd sworn to avoid if it took his life as payment.

As if he'd heard his thought, Jerry slid behind him, separated by the wall of the tub, sliding a hand into the water the same way he'd slid it into his shirt, tweaking the nipple he'd neglected earlier with two nimble fingers, making Peter gasp. He pinched it lightly; rolling it between his fingers, and drew from his lips a strangled moan. Already the water was turning murky and the vampire slapped a button that nearly instantly filtered it, giving him a very clear view of Peter's body beneath it.

He was very still, trying not to arch into the hand making him bite his lip to keep from making little sounds of pleasure, his head lolling back, partially onto the edge of the tub and partially onto Jerry's shoulder. "Mmm," the vampire moaned purposefully into his ear, sending a rush to his brain. He hated the pheromones his kind gave off when they wanted, hated them with a passion, but when his cock stirred and a slender, currently un-clawed hand wrapped around it and pumped him slowly, once and twice and god it felt just _so _good… "You're so pretty, Peter. So pretty, and you know it, don't you, you bitch?"

His body betrayed him and he panted, hardening fully. "Good, you're ready to play. How about this, though—no one touches your cock until you wash your hair." A whine escaped his throat and his hair was gripped in pleasure-pain. "Do what I say," was growled into his ear and he immediately went to it. He found it difficult to keep his concentration on his hair but he managed, lathering the soap on the counter into it and sliding down to rinse it.

When he emerged his mouth was almost immediately claimed and every instinct he had wanted him to cry out and push the vampire away. Jerry almost never kissed him, but when he did, it was an automatic aphrodisiac, causing his entire body to throb with need. _His _need. He felt his trained entrance, the tight whirl so doted on by his captor, clench and unclench, his vampire-drugged body seeping his natural lubricant from places men normally didn't have such reactions in. He knew better than to try to pull Jerry closer, but the vampire slid his hands from wet shoulders to his lower forearms, slinging his own arms around his neck. While they kissed, Peter almost sobbing in need as the continued kiss sent repetitive, no less potent pangs of sweet lust through his veins, Jerry washed him with his hands and soap, wiping grime and dirt from his entire body.

He broke the kiss, finally, watching Peter pant with interest before hitting the filter button again. When the water was crystal clear once more, clothes were shed and Jerry slid into the tub with him. Peter couldn't help it, and was surprised when he received no retribution immediately for practically throwing himself into Jerry's lap, his eyes tearing as his ass hole began to clench again, his passage feeling downright painful now as it pulsed, rippling through the walls of his insides, just becoming wetter and wetter in a way that made him feel like a _fucking woman_, but he couldn't complain.

"Please," he cried out, one tear slipping down his cheek. "Please, please, master!" God, it was killing him, making him _want _so badly.

"'Please' what, pet?" Jerry teased him, but his already nearly-nonexistent pupils were dilated to the point of being black surrounded by a thin ring of black-brown.

"Fuck me," Peter sobbed, breaking for the hundredth time. He hated to beg, but when Jerry did this to him, he had no choice if he wanted to get what he needed, what would make his lower half stop feeling like he was dying from lack of friction, lack of movement within him. "Please, just please, fuck me!" Jerry's sinful lips curled upward and his hands slid from his back to his hips, angling him in a way that sent anticipation pangs through his body.

"Are you sure?" he asked and Peter let another couple tears slip loose.

"Yes," he cried. "Please, I need you."

Apparently, this was the right thing to say because there was suddenly a blunt, burning head pressed against his slick entrance and his hole nearly kissed the head, tried to suck him in. The feeling of being teased so cruelly was excruciating; still, he persisted in keeping still, only whimpering as his passage pulsed even more, being so close to what it wanted without getting it.

When the head pushed in, it was somewhere between sweet relief and a horrible, burning feeling as his need skyrocketed. That was the thing about vampire kisses, the drug in their saliva, that was truly torturous—once you had what you wanted, you would only want it more and more until climax—and with the way Jerry was going, that could take a while. The slower he went, the more he pushed in, the more he would want and need and _beg _for it.

Jerry surprised him from there, however, by letting his eager, drugged little entrance suck him in the rest of the way, pushing his hips down completely to aid his anus's quest without complete consent from his mind, and he screamed—oh, yes. He screamed, at least once when that beautiful cock (it really was, so long and thick, and so _heated _that he felt like he was melting) pressed into his prostate, making Peter choke on his cries. "So _good_," he groaned, but after that, he couldn't think anymore because Jerry was moving and his body was on fire with need, forcing him to get as close as he possibly could, to beg the vampire to touch his cock and fondle his balls and do all the things he loved so dearly.

In the state, he completely missed the thought that had crossed his mind, the evidence of his drug-spurned Stockholm's Syndrome. God, he needed it, and he kept whimpering it, completely obliviously to himself, as Jerry thrusted again and again. Jerry was never gentle, but he was so passionate and he was so good at what he did that at that point, he wasn't quite sure he _cared_. When he finally succeeded, Jerry's hand on his cock, his pinky teasing his balls which tightened even more with every stroke, he nearly blew his load, but resisted; he couldn't let go quite yet. He wanted _more_, and rolled his hips with every thrust, taking him deeper, minutes passing until he couldn't hold it in anymore and he screamed yet again, his voice hoarse and completely illicit, as his cum erupted, befouling the water and his captor, who shot his own load deep into the confines of his prisoner's ass.

"Bloody hell," he whispered and he heard Jerry whisper as he lifted his very much noodle-like body out of the tub and dried him off first, then himself. The endorphins were wearing off and his shame was returning—the cum dribbling from his asshole that still twitched every now and again with the aftershocks of his pleasure—but he didn't protest as Jerry dressed first himself this time, then Peter in a simple robe the same shade of indigo as the vampire's jeans , before lifting him into his arms again and taking him down the walk of shame once more. He couldn't see anything but the girls he used to shag so vigorously, the girls that had once been the envy of their kind. Now, he was the envy, and they stared at him in undisguised jealousy because of the pleasure he had been given.

When they were safe in his room once more, he tried to speak and failed, letting Jerry claim his mouth again, his tired body feeling like it was going to break as that striking need hit him once more, but he couldn't fight. The need had hit him once again and he wrapped his long legs around Jerry's waist, thanking the lord the vampire was in a good mood to allow it as he was pressed into a futon, as he was promised. His robe was pushed aside and Jerry's jeans were discarded once more. There was no teasing this time, just the simple slide of Jerry's cock into his body and the passion that followed.

Jerry was much slower this time, driving Peter wilder than before with his slow, shallow thrusts. He couldn't decide if he really liked it or not—the drugs, those natural aphrodisiacs that were torturing him so acutely, made him want something deeper, harder. More contact, more speed, more depth, just _more. _Who was to deny him that? Obviously not Jerry, because when a voice he barely recognized as his own cried out, pleading in a higher voice than he was used to, he was given what he'd asked for without any hesitation, a smooth transition from his slow lovemaking to a hard fuck, pounding him with that gentle touch. He could barely describe it; it was all soft touches and forceful passion.

Then they came again and Peter knew he was spent. Anymore and he _would _break and Jerry knew it, simply laying on his white, newly stained sheets and letting Peter rest his head on his chest. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

"You are a mystery," Jerry chuckled to himself. "I can't decide whether you're in love with me or you want me dead." But Peter was already sleeping, and even if he'd been awake, he was far too exhausted to answer. He let the human sleep, stroking his hair thoughtfully.

Eventually he, too, slept.

**The thing about Peter that attracts me is that he's not a 'oh, vampire's-must-die-kill-vampires' victim. No, he's much more real—instead of hunting, he **_**avoids**_**, with everything he can. He is afraid, and that is so, so new when it comes to characters like him. So yes, I love Peter Vincent, and not just because he's played in the new one by David Tennant. After all… he's gonna pop your cherry.**

**Kandakicksass**


End file.
